


The Handkerchief

by twizzle



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twizzle/pseuds/twizzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maltravers receives some bad news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Handkerchief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aestivali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aestivali/gifts).



> For aesti, my yuletide recipient. I hope you like it! I feel like I should apologise for the lack of porn, but this pairing tends to mean I angst rather than smut. Funny, I don't feel I should apologise for the angst!
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Blenkinsop and Maltravers however are not mine.

“Are yer Maltravers?”

The unfamiliar voice that addressed him so informally caught Maltravers’ attention. He may allow his own men to speak to him in a casual manner, but it would not do for any random private to consider that courtesy extended to them.

“That is not the correct manner in which to address an officer but yes, I am he.”

“Sorry sir, me CO didn’t tell me what yer rank was, ‘e just called ya Maltravers. I wouldn’ta known that was yer if I hadn’t over’eard the men talkin’ to ya just now.”

Maltravers sighed. He did not have time for this. There were only a few minutes left of his break until he would be on duty again, and this man’s waffle was eating away at it.

“Get to the point, private.”

“Sorry sir. I was asked ta give ya this.” He held out a piece of cloth, bloodied and dirtied despite being folded neatly. “I say asked, but ‘e made it an order ta make sure yer’d get it. It were a damn pain comin’ this far up the trench without a written order though, I can tell ya! But I got witnesses sir, they can all tell ya-“

Maltravers took the cloth, unfolding it with a tentative grip to reveal a well-used and threadbare handkerchief with the letter ‘B’ embroidered in one corner.

“This was Blenkinsop’s.” Maltravers said, cutting the man off. “Why did he send you to me with this?”

“…Sir, ‘ow well did ya know him?”

“He’s my best friend.” Maltravers replied. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

The man hesitated, obviously at a loss how to handle the situation.

“I’m sorry sir. There was a cave in. We didn’t think the shellin’ would ‘it us and then…” He trailed off, fidgeting on the spot under Maltravers’ horror-stricken gaze. “The supports o’ the dugout crushed ‘im. We were lucky ta get ta ‘im before ‘e died, but the medics couldn’t do nothin’ fer him.”

Maltravers looked down at the handkerchief, the once white cotton covered in all manner of stains, the recent blood that encrusted it having turned the embroidery a dirty brown. The blood that would be Blenkinsop’s.

“Are you sure?” Maltravers asked. He had to. If there was any hope that this man was mistaken, that Blenkinsop was in one of the field hospitals or medic stations-

“’e died in front’a me, sir. Said ‘e didn’t mind what was sent back ta ‘is family, but that I ‘ad ta give ya the hanky. Said ‘e wanted it ta go ta the person ‘e cared fer most. Said yer’d know what ta do with it.”

Maltravers gave a curt nod in recognition of the words. He could feel the dread and horror squeezing the back of his throat, how his chest felt closed and tongue thick. Tears pricked at his eyes and he swallowed hard in an attempt to dispel them before they could manifest completely. He could not be seen to cry in the trench. He would not have his men see him weep, could not show his weakness. He dealt with death every day and after the first few he had grown used to it. The men he called friends could perish at any moment. He was used to that, he could accept that. But this was Blenkinsop. His Blenkers. They had not even said goodbye properly, their farewell rushed when the younger man found himself promoted and posted further down the line.

They had not been alone at the time, their quarters crowded with other men. They had been used to a lack of privacy at school, their dorm full and having to speak in hushed whispers to avoid being heard. The billets in the trench had had a resemblance to those forms when they had arrived, albeit without the luxuries of working facilities. But these similarities had disappeared as soon as reality had sunk in – the constant attacks, shelling, raids, drills… everything worked to disrupt their time and mentality. Add the sodden boots and lice, itchy clothes and poor food and it was enough to make even the most positive man an antisocial grump. But Blenkinsop had kept Maltravers smiling while they had been together.

_‘This is farewell, then?’_ He had said, a hand on Blenkinsop’s shoulder, a gesture of friendship to any who looked upon them, but one which held more meaning for the two men.

_‘I’ll visit when I have some leave. Chin up, old chap.’_ The response had been characteristically positive, despite the sorrow and trepidation written in the lines of a frown on Blenkinsop’s forehead.

What both wished to say had been left unspoken between them. Feelings were hard to talk about at the best of times, and it was not that they could not admit it – they did, frequently, with secret whispers in the dead of night when the shells blocked their words of love from the ears of any others. They said it with stolen touches and quiet kisses, huddled close as they waited for the night to pass.

But Maltravers had not believed that that would have been his last chance. Had he known, he would have gladly told him, in spite of the risk of discovery. They had kept their relationship a secret from the other men; even those they considered close friends and confidants could not be trusted with a secret such as this. Not only would they have been asking for understanding rather than revulsion, but the secret was too great a responsibility to put upon another’s shoulders.

Instead, Maltravers had bid Blenkinsop farewell with a curt nod and a handshake. He had not told him that he did not want him to go, had not told him that he was scared how he would survive without him should he perish. He had not told Blenkinsop how he felt about him in uncensored words, had not reassured him that he would always hold a place in his heart.

“Sir?” The man’s voice broke Maltravers from his reverie.

“Thank you.” He replied, his voice sounding odd before a cough to clear his throat of the emotion that blocked it. “I know who it’s for.”

“Did ‘e ‘ave a sweetheart back home? One the family didn’t know about?”

Maltravers nodded in response.

“Poor lass, bein’ given a hanky. ‘e used ta write poems but they all got buried, no point diggin’ them out. Let ‘er know though, will ya sir? Tell ‘er ‘e thought about ‘er. They were god awful though, sir. Rogers found one and it were full of nonsense ‘bout flaxen hair and a tree in a field. Probably best she didn’t get ta read ‘em.”

“Thank you.” Maltravers replied. He knew the tree Blenkinsop would have been referring to, the old tree with twisting branches that cast a deep shadow in the summer. The tree that they had picnicked under many a time and shared their first kiss against, Blenkinsop leaning into him to trap him against the bark. He had been full of the enthusiasm that accompanied everything he did, and Maltravers had welcomed and encouraged it by holding on to his lanky teenage frame and giving himself over to the passion.

“You’re dismissed.” Maltravers said, unsure how he was able to speak without his voice shaking. Without waiting for a reply or for the man to move he left, boards creaking loudly underfoot as he stormed through the trench, seeking a quiet corner where he could wail and cry. But there were no quiet corners, and he was due on duty.

Maltravers took a moment alone instead to close his eyes and breathe deeply. He fought to push down the grief that threatened to overwhelm him, to make himself presentable, to regain control even if it were only long enough to last his shift. When the bombs fell he knew he could scream to release his sorrow upon the world, but in this relative quiet he had to maintain order. A part of him longed to give in to the grief, maybe even to put his pistol to his head… but Blenkinsop would not want that. So in that moment he made a resolution, a promise to himself.

He would get through this. He would survive. For Blenkinsop.


End file.
